Angelus
by firesoulslayer
Summary: Warren reflects on his life after the events at Alcatraz.


**Title**: Angelus  
**Fandom**: X-Men  
**Genre**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: G  
**Characters**: Warren Worthington III/Angel  
**Disclaimer**: X-Men belongs to Marvel, not me.  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for Last Stand.  
**Author's Notes**: Written for a challenge, use the words: _Candlelight. Wood. Dead flowers. _I wanted to explore Angel's character a little more since we didn't get to see much of him in the movie, sadly. Reviews are very appreciated.

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_The San Francisco skyline is never going to be the same again_, Warren thought sadly as he flew over the remains of the Golden Gate Bridge. The once majestic bridge that had spanned San Francisco Bay and welcomed thousands of immigrants to the American shore now lay in tattered ruins.

Twisted hunks of jagged metal jutted out from the shore line, reminding Warren of the blood spattered bone spurs he had once attempted to saw off of his own body. A twinge of phantom pain ghosted through his wings at the memory.

Up ahead, he saw the familiar silver-tiled roof of his building. He gently slowed his flight and landed softly on the balcony. When Warren asked for the top floor loft of this luxury high-rise, his father spared no expense. The cost of rent alone could probably easily support a family of six, but Warren was no stranger to luxury. Look at all his father had done in order to try and cure him of his mutation.

Mutant…it was such a loaded word. He was 11 when the first bones began rising out of his back. The pain had been incredible, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation he felt. He still remembered the sharp sense of panic that overrode everything, even the pain as he attempted to saw off the bits of bone and feathers that were sprouting from his back. Tears poured from his eyes and he couldn't stop himself from sobbing softly, but they had to come off! He couldn't be a mutant!

Even now that sense of shame was still present. He was one of the lucky ones; a harness and large trench coat could disguise his mutation easily enough. He was home schooled, made rare public appearances, everything that would be expected of the son of such a well-to-do family.

Whenever he passed a mutant on the street that wasn't so lucky he cringed and shied away; afraid of being recognized, of being outcast. He had seen the worst humanity had to offer: mutants spat upon, beaten and nearly lynched just because they were _different_. A part of him—the part that had refused his father's treatment and leapt from the window of the lab—wanted to shed his coat, stand up and say, "Leave them alone! I'm a mutant too. Me, Warren Worthington III."

Instead, he merely averted his eyes and kept walking. The shame of it was almost as bad as the shame of being a mutant in the first place. He was a grade-A coward any way you looked at it. He wondered if it was still possible to get the cure.

Suddenly, he didn't feel like flying anymore. He stalked into his apartment and flipped on the television as he grabbed a bottle of scotch and a tumbler. The amber liquid slid down his throat like liquid fire, burning a path to his abdomen and radiating warmth throughout his limbs. It did little to quiet the churning sensation in his chest or the endless round of questions and recriminations that filled his head.

Staring at the mindless drivel that passed for entertainment nowadays was doing nothing to relax him. Events continued to replay themselves in his head—passing a beaten mutant on the street, crashing through the lab window, fleeing in the middle of the night for Massachusetts, meeting others like him and—for the first time—finally feeling like he belonged.

After the final battle with Magneto's Brotherhood of Mutants on Alcatraz, Ororo Munroe—Storm—had asked him to come back with them to Xavier's school. Consumed by guilt and shame, Warren had refused and had instead returned home to his San Francisco loft and life of comfortable semi-anonymity.

Now he wondered if that had been the right decision. Already there were rumors about the winged angel that flew over San Francisco's skies. There were also rumors that Warren Worthington II had a mutant for a son, explaining the reasoning behind his obsessive search for a mutant "cure." It wouldn't take long for people to put two and two together.

The four walls of his apartment began to close in around him. He flared his wings wildly, listening to the loud snap as they extended to their full length. He caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror along the wall and took a moment to admire his physique. Almost immediately however, the ever-present sense of shame flooded through him, reminding him that he was a mutant and that it was certainly nothing to be proud of.

He couldn't stay inside any longer. Bile began to rise in his throat and he quickly shrugged into his harness and coat. As soon as he set foot outside of the building he began to run through the streets, shouldering several people out of his way in his desire to simply feel free. Soon however, he noticed that he was drawing a bit too much unwanted attention and slowed his run to a more sedate walking pace.

He wandered the streets for over two hours, sometimes doubling back on himself, always being careful of his surroundings. The city could be a dangerous place at night, especially for a mutant. He found no solace in his wanderings, only more questions. He didn't belong in the human world, living a lie that was bound to be discovered. Nor could he fit in with his fellow mutants; the sense of shame at his previous actions toward his kind would make sure of that. He had nowhere he belonged.

Up ahead, he took notice of an imposing stone façade. The gothic spires of the church's architecture seemed at once sinister and inviting. Warren hesitated for only a moment before walking up the steps and through the heavy wooden door.

The inside of the church was warm. Red velvet lined the aisles, a compliment to the pews and matching altar made of cherry wood. The back of the chapel was lit with warm track lightening that slowly dimmed as he worked his way forward. The pulpit, altar and ambry were lit only by the subtle glow of candlelight, one on each side of the altar and several sticks burning brightly in their silver holsters along the walls. As he reached the front he took a moment to admire the architecture and run his hands over the smooth finish of the kneeling rail.

"Can I help you?"

The voice startled Warren, but when he turned he saw only the black-robed form of an old priest coming slowly up the aisle. The man offered a kind smile and indicated the first pew. "Feel free to sit, if you like."

Hesitantly, the blonde settled himself in the corner of the pew, being careful not to lean back against his bound wings, which were beginning to throb from the strain of being tied back. He had been flying too much lately for the harness to feel comfortable.

The priest joined Warren on the pew and the young man waited anxiously for the unwanted questions to begin. When it became clear that the priest was only interested in watching the candles burn, Warren let himself relax a little and returned to his contemplations.

They sat in silence for a quarter of an hour. Warren was constantly shooting the preist looks out of the corner of his eye, wondering why the man would simply sit with him. Finally, his curiosity spurred him to speak. "Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?"

The priest simply shrugged. "This is a house of God, open to all of His children."

"Even the forsaken ones?" Warren asked bitterly.

"God does not forsake any of His children," the old priest replied, his stern voice echoing disapproval.

Warren said nothing, simply shrugging out of his overcoat and then undoing the straps of his harness. His wings were tingling from being constricted for so long and he gratefully stretched them out to their full length.

The priest simply shook his head. "Do you think you will shock me? I'm sorry, son, but you can't hide them very well, even under that coat. You are still a child of God and you are still welcome in this house."

The priest's complacency caused a knot of anger to rise in Warren's chest. "If God loves me so damn much, then why did he make me this way? Why am _I_ a freak? A mutant!"

"God makes each man and woman in His image, but some He endows with special gifts. Yours just happen to be physical instead of spiritual or mental. You are especially blessed with the form God has given you. You should look upon it as a gift, not a curse."

"A gift? Giant wings growing out of my back are a _gift_?" he asked incredulously.

"You can fly, can't you? To feel the wind soaring beneath you, literally…some people would give anything to have what you have been given."

This caused Warren to pause as he considered the priest's words. He had given up a cure because the thought of never feeling the wind beneath his wings again had been terrifying. Flying gave him such a sense of freedom, to soar in the sky under his own power was the ultimate form of liberation.

"I do love flying," he admitted after several moments. "But, Father, how can I continue to live like this? I don't want to be a mutant. I don't want to live with them, to feel different from everyone else. But, I can't be human either."

"There comes a time in every man's life when he has to choose what is most important to him. What is most important to you? To live a normal life among humans or to fly free and live the life that God intended for you?"

"I want to be free," Warren answered immediately. "I want to stop feeling ashamed of myself. I want to feel like I'm a part of something, that I belong somewhere. That my life has meaning." A small, self-depreciating laugh forced itself through his lips. "No small order, huh?"

Shaking his head, the priest laid a rough hand on Warren's shoulder. "You are a creature of God, my son. He made you special, _nuntius_, a messenger. With the form of an angel and the flesh of a man."

Warren shifted uncomfortably at the thought. His family had never been particularly religious and certainly not Catholic and yet it was here that he thought to seek solace from the questions that haunted him. He wondered if maybe this priest had a point.

"Father, I'm not Catholic," he confessed uneasily.

The priest let out a small chuckle. "Do you think God judges you because of what you are _not_? God has a plan for you, whether or not you know it. He knows what direction your life is to take. Maybe you are not Catholic now, or maybe you will never be, but He created you for a purpose."

"To be a messenger?" The priest nodded serenely. "But then…what is my message? What am I supposed to accomplish?" The blonde youth began to pace anxiously, his wings fluttering slightly as he whipped his body back and forth across the church floor. "Look at me Father, I'm a mutant! People hate me, they _fear_ me. What message can I possibly be meant to spread?"

"When you figure that out, son, then you will have the answer to the question most men spend their entire lives asking."

The priest left Warren alone then, in front of the burning candles and the altar with its dried, dead flowers. The mutant watched the flames flicker, changing their shape with the flow of the breeze but never going out. He wondered if he could find the same strength within himself. Finally, he rose from his seat and headed out into the night.

He left his apartment in darkness when he arrived home. His enhanced eyesight easily allowed him to maneuver through the lavishly furnished sitting area and over to the corner where the phone sat. Picking it up, he took a deep breath and began to dial.

"Hello, Ms. Munroe. This is Warren Worthington," he hesitated and flexed his wings. "Angel. I wanted to talk to you about the X-Men…"


End file.
